


Harmony

by makebelieveanything



Series: AFTG Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Fae AU, Fantasy AU, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, enchanted flute, illusions to violence, minor depictions of violence, musicians au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makebelieveanything/pseuds/makebelieveanything
Summary: Neil was stuck working for the Winter Court fae as a deal made by his father when he is taken hostage by the Autumn Court. In the Autumn Court Neil finds safety, he gets to play his music in peace, and he starts to fall for his captor, what could possibly go wrong?or a fae fantasy AU where Neil has an enchanted flute and Andrew helps him find happiness.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: AFTG Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815259
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119
Collections: AFTG Bingo Blackout 2020 - Cupcakes, All For The Game Bingo 2020





	Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a huge shout out and thank you to my wonderful friend and beta [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox). All errors are my own. 
> 
> This is an enchanted flute AU written for the beautiful [DeyaAmaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeyaAmaya) who helped inspire me to start writing again. Deya, here's that enchanted flute AU I promised you so many months ago. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Written as part of the Fluffy Cupcakes AFTG Bingo Blackout for the Musicians AU.

The crisp winter wind blows against Neil’s cheeks, chilling the tip of his nose and brushing gently at the curls framing his jaw. His fur lined, deerskin boots crunch quietly over pine needles as he wanders through the forest, the overwhelming scent of evergreen flooding his senses. Dappled sunlight filters through the trees and Neil hides under their boughs as the rays stream across his face, closing his eyes to let the barest hint of warmth seep through his eyelids. 

On days like this, when the sun is barely covered by flimsy clouds and the ground is free of wet snow, Neil doesn’t completely hate the Winter Court; although he still abhors the chill that creeps into his bones through the multiple layers of clothes. Neil wishes that for just one day, maybe even just a couple hours, he could be warm. He misses being warm.

“Neil, it’s time,” Jean says, intruding into Neil’s daydream. Neil scowls silently at the tall, dark-skinned fae warrior, not only for ruining his moment of peace but for sneaking up on him - again. Neil’s mortal senses are not nearly as sensitive as Jean’s, and the fae male has always enjoyed using his stealth to surprise Neil. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Neil grumbles, following Jean through the trees, his footfalls carefully chosen and silent as a fae’s, despite his mortal heritage. 

No more than ten yards away through the gentle swaying of pine boughs, Neil glimpses a small group of warriors. They’re dressed in Autumn Court colors - mostly fae, but even from this far Neil can tell a few are mortal. It’s abnormal for Autumn Court soldiers to have made it this far into Winter territory, even more so for them to be traveling with mortals. Neil appreciates his meager human eyesight as he brings his enchanted flute to his lips; he knows it will prevent him from witnessing the looks of pain and terror that will inevitably cross their victims’ faces. 

Neil takes a deep breath, closes his eyes anyways, and begins to play. The melody starts softly, just a couple notes repeating lentamente, each new measure adding a variation on the original chord structure. It’s a haunting melody; the notes flow and fall over each other in a steady accelerando, like a stream rippling downhill. Even Neil is not immune to the ethereal beauty that filters through and around the melody. 

Neil knows what he would see if he opened his eyes: the Autumn Court soldiers turned in awe, helpless against the enchanting melody, the swell of the crescendo, the flutter of the grace notes like a faerie’s wings - oblivious to Jean, the dark shadow creeping up behind them. 

Behind Neil’s eyelids though, he stays safely in his memories, pulled back in time by the music that flows effortlessly from his fingers. 

* * *

  
_It was hot in the summer here, unbearably hot, and the faint breeze that wandered in through the open window did little to cool the flush of Nathaniel’s skin. At least today Nathan - his father - was gone, which means Nathaniel was free of his usual confines. Free to roam the house, or as he was currently doing, lay sprawled over the living room’s oriental rug while the faint whispers of a breeze brushed over his neck. Days like today, where Nathaniel was free, were few and far between, and he planned to take advantage of the ability to stretch his sore cramped limbs._

_That was when he heard the melody - the one from his dreams. Nathaniel thought the beautiful, haunting notes he’d heard in the impenetrable darkness had been his imagination: something his brain created to dispel the terror of endless hours stuck in the cramped confines of a basement closet. But today he was awake, he could feel the brush of wind over his temples, the scratch of the rug under his finger tips, which meant one thing: the music was real._

_Nathaniel rushed to the window, peering through the lace drapes at the cobblestone street below where a peddler ambled along, a handcrafted wooden flute at his lips, his fingers dancing through a melody that felt like it pulled at Nathaniel’s very bones. He was so caught up in the artistry of the music, Nathaniel didn’t hear Mary appear behind him, but he was shocked when she pressed some copper pennies into his hand._

_“Go,” she said, gesturing Nathaniel out the door._

_Minutes later Nathaniel was in his room, his fingers wrapped gently around a stunningly carved flute. The wood was dark, smooth, and artfully painted in a twisting pattern of vines in varying shades of green, providing a pleasant contrast to the flute’s natural wood grain. Nathaniel was enraptured. He let his fingers graze across the surface of the flute, feeling the dips of the finger holes, the arch of the top as it curved to a point for the mouthpiece._

_“For you,” the peddler had insisted - a trade for Nathaniel’s meager pennies - before he’d continued along the street, his music transforming into an allegro melody, the notes like flames crackling and dancing in the air._

* * *

Neil jolts back into reality as a sharp grip on his upper arm yanks the flute away from his mouth. It’s luck, and some primal instinct, that keeps Neil’s other hand wrapped tightly around his flute. He opens his eyes, hoping the massacre is done and it is time to go back to the castle, but the person beside him is not Jean. Neil barely catches a glimpse of messy blond hair and distinctly human hazel eyes before something hits him over the head and his eyes fall shut again into total darkness. 

Neil wakes this time to a pounding headache, slumped in the corner of a jostling wagon. Every inch of his body is sore, but it’s only when he tries to open his eyes to get a glimpse of his surroundings that Neil realizes he can’t see anything. A thick black fabric is tied tightly over his eyes, and Neil can feel the uncomfortable pull of rope against his wrists and ankles as well. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to immediately panic, but even as he wills his breath not to rush in and out too quickly, Neil feels the tell-tale signs of tingling running up his arms as his lungs deprive his brain of oxygen. 

_Nathan is dead. Mary is dead. Nathaniel is dead - you are Neil. This is not the basement._

Neil counts to ten, repeats the mantra, counts again, internally begging his body to cooperate: it doesn’t. 

“Breathe,” a sharp voice commands Neil. The speaker is unfamiliar, but the word is laced in honey and absolutely indomitable, and Neil’s body unwittingly obeys. He gasps a deep breath in, relishing the pain as air fills his starved lungs, and holds onto it for a couple precious seconds before he lets it out. 

“Again,” the voice orders, and Neil obeys. 

It’s enough, the air in his lungs, the knowledge that he isn’t alone; even though Neil has no clue who his captors are, the unknown voice is a balm to his panicked mind as it only reinforces what he tells himself to remain grounded. 

_Nathan is dead. Mary is dead. Nathaniel is dead - you are Neil. This is not the basement._

Once Neil can breathe somewhat regularly again he closes his eyes - ignoring the rough fabric that brushes against his eyelashes - and focuses on his other senses. Now that he registers the sounds around him, Neil can distinguish the shuffling of multiple bodies. A foot rests near one of his calves, and although he is slumped on a rough wooden floor, Neil feels the heat of the wood against his shoulders. Heat that has seeped into the wood itself and now bleeds its way through Neil’s layers of clothes.

For the first time in years, Neil realizes he isn’t cold. 

He’s not in the Winter Court anymore.

Neil floats in and out of wakefulness as they travel. His captors say very little to him, and although he catches a couple names here and there, Neil never gets a grasp of who has abducted him or where they are going. It’s not long before Neil succumbs to the memories of his mind; their familiar darkness an escape from his blindfolded reality.

* * *

_The closet was dark, it was always dark. The space was barely big enough for Nathaniel to fit - his knees shoved up to his chest and his back pressed against the wall. Nathaniel forgot what it meant to be able to feel his toes a long time ago, but he wasn’t panicking anymore. Nathaniel shoved his fingers into the crack of the paneling to his left and bent the panel back enough to pull out his flute, the instrument a welcome balm to his terrified mind._

_Nathaniel was forbidden from making any noise in his prison, but that doesn’t stop him from placing his fingers over the flute’s holes. His muscles have long since memorized the pattern of the notes he knew from endless nights spent staring at sheet music in the glow of the moon through his bedroom window. He always kept the flute safely hidden from Nathan in the loose board in the back of his closet-cage, but the sheet music he tucked away inside the stuffing of his mattress through a thin slit between the mattress seam and the bed frame. Then, at night when he should be sleeping, Nathaniel memorized sheet after sheet, and when his father locked him in the closet - never knowing when the door would be unlocked again - Nathaniel pressed his fingers against the holes, matching the pattern of the fingering to the music in his head._

_And sometimes, just like before, he could hear the lilting melody of the peddler as he wandered the street outside; Neil pretended his fingers dancing over the wood created a silent harmony._

* * *

Bright sunlight pierces Neil’s eyelids, rousing him from his sleep. He opens his eyes, squinting against the bright light that is doubly confounding due to his lack of blindness.

Looking around Neil finds himself in a warmly decorated room, ornamented in exquisite furnishings in shades of gold, crimson, and orange. Neil himself is no longer bound and he’s still in his Winter Court clothes, but he’s curled up on a down feather mattress big enough for at least three people. Dressed as he is in all the layers of winter, the heat is sweltering and Neil’s clothes stick sweatily to his body. He pulls himself out of the comfort of the mattress and investigates the room as he shucks off the offensive layers of clothes. 

Besides the bed and the huge area rug, three large windows dominate one wall - letting in the rays of sunlight that woke Neil. Sheer golden drapes cover the windows, and Neil pulls them aside to get a glimpse outside. If the colors of his room aren’t already indicators, the foliage that covers the trees confirms Neil’s assumption: he is in the Autumn Court. 

Turning back to his surroundings, Neil runs his eyes over the rest of the room: a bookshelf full of books - half of them in a language Neil’s never seen - stands against one of the two remaining walls, while a desk with a vanity mirror mounted above it occupies the other. A dark red, fitted jerkin and pair of lightweight, black pants are draped over the back of the desk chair; a flowing white shirt with ties to cuff the wrists lays on top. 

Neil bypasses the outfit and tries the door handle, unsurprisingly finding it locked. No matter the elegance and finery surrounding him, the room is still exactly what Neil suspects: a cage. 

Neil returns to the desk, fingering the silky fabric of the clothes before he notices a handwritten note on the desk. 

Your presence is requested at dinner this evening. All the amenities you require should be available in your room. If you are in need of assistance, knock three times on the door and a servant will attend to your needs. I hope you enjoy the rooms. 

P.S. Check the bottom drawer of the desk. -A

Neil reads the note three more times, hoping he will gain some understanding, but the sender only concludes it with a single “A”, and the meaning appears pretty clear: it is an order to make himself presentable for dinner, veiled as a nicely disguised invitation. 

Neil shrugs, tosses the note back on the desk and assesses himself in the mirror. His hair’s in shambles, the usually russet curls hanging limp and unclean; dirt and grime smudges his face from his journey. Searching the room again, Neil locates a tub of water and some soaps, hair product, and a scrub. It’s not big enough for a fully immersed bath, but it allows Neil to scrub himself of the grime and grit that coats him like a second skin.

Even though wearing something picked for him by an unknown puppeteer makes Neil feel like a doll, he can’t help but admire the clothes laid out for him. They are soft, silky, extremely breathable, and remarkably comfortable. Neil struggles to tie the shirt sleeves on his own, and finally gives up on the task, letting the tails hang down around his fingers. He barely finishes arranging his hair to a semblance of order when a soft knock sounds at his door. 

A servant opens the door, glancing in and nodding at the sight of Neil: awake and fully dressed. 

“Are you ready, sir? I am here to escort you to your dinner,” the servant advises. 

Neil nods, turning away from the mirror. He’s almost to the door when he remembers the last line of the note. Rushing back to the desk, Neil opens the bottom drawer and stares in shock at its contents: gently cradled in a plush, felt-lined case lays his flute. 

Neil picks up the case, running his fingers reverently down the wood of his flute, carefully checking for any damages before he closes and latches the case, tucks it under his arm, and follows the servant out the door. 

Neil expects a full court press dinner, either to force him to grovel before the king of the court, or more likely to play minstrel for the evening. What he does not expect is a limited affair dinner, nor the blond haired, hazel eyed man who had attacked Neil in the woods seated at a table at the head of the room. A chair remains unoccupied next to him at the table, but the other four smaller tables in the room are packed. The mini-court doesn’t even acknowledge Neil’s; the denizens continue to laugh, eat, and enjoy their evening untroubled by the newcomer’s arrival.

The servant ushers Neil up the aisle to the head table, leaving him standing awkwardly beside the open chair. 

“Sit,” the blond man offers, turning to look at Neil. His voice: it’s the voice from the wagon, the one that pulled Neil out of his panic. Neil feels torn between anger and gratitude, the knot on his head still smarting, but the memory of that calm voice talking him through the panic still fresh in his mind. 

Neil sits. He places the case with his flute beside his plate, and then watches in awe as the man next to him starts piling food onto his plate. 

“Eat,” the man offers once Neil’s plate is covered in mouth-watering food: roasted, skinned potatoes; duck coated in an onion raspberry glaze that isn’t nearly as sweet as Neil expects; spring greens tossed with pomberry vinegar dressing. 

Neil and his companion eat in silence, but the room around them fills with the easy chatter of guests and the bustling of servers. It’s a scaled down version of a full court, yet unlike any court function Neil has ever attended. Winter Court dinners were stately, quiet, affairs - the guests in this strange court are boisterous, and happy.

After Neil stuffs himself on food, and the dishes have been cleared by attentive servants, the man next to him finally turns and proffers Neil with a bold determining gaze. 

“My name’s Andrew, I’m one of the human delegates of the Autumn Court. You are?” Andrew’s voice is crisp, brisk, like a fall breeze, but it still holds the undertones of honey Neil recalls from the wagon. 

“I’m Neil, I’m not a member of any court,” Neil replies, and it isn’t a complete lie since Neil had only been sold to the Winter Court as part of a bargain that has long since been broken - he never truly belonged there. 

“I don’t believe you,” Andrew says evenly, sliding his gaze over Neil’s face as if searching for a hint of the truth he was seeking. 

“It’s the truth, or a portion of it,” Neil shrugs. “The rest is personal, and irrelevant.”

Andrew nods, digesting that bit of truth and apparently accepting it as sufficient, for the time being. 

“Come, let us relax, maybe you will play for me?” Andrew suggests, nodding to a pile of cushions in an alcove off the back of the room that would provide them with a modicum of privacy. Neil agrees, happy to avoid the discussion of who he was and what was going to happen to him for as long as possible.

They settle onto the cushions, Andrew leaving a very obvious gap between their two bodies, and Neil pulls out his flute, running the wood between his palms to warm it. 

“Any requests?” Neil asks. 

“Surprise me,” Andrew responds. 

Neil brings his flute to his lips and plays a few short scales to acquaint himself with the memory of it before he transitions into a soft, melodic piece. It is an old love song, long since forgotten by the fae courts, but a particular favorite of Neil’s. 

He has never played it when luring men to their deaths for the Winter Court; in truth, Neil hasn’t played this song since his last night in the mortal realm, but the lofted notes, the sway of the tempo, it brings him back immediately. So Neil plays, slowly, secretly, bleeding his heart out for this strange Autumn Court human who has simultaneously become his abductor, and, quite possibly, also his savior. 

* * *

_The first time Nathaniel actually played his flute was the most devastating moment of his entire life - worse than the stretches of days stuck in a cold dark basement closet, his body alternating between dizzy wakefulness and starving exhaustion - because Nathaniel realized one thing very quickly. He may be able to hear and enjoy the music played by others, he may even be able to play the music physically - his fingers knew the motions by rote - but Nathaniel himself would never be a musician: he was tone deaf._

_That night, staring at the sliver of moonlight that crept through the barred window of his bedroom, Nathaniel broke. Music had always been what kept him sane, kept him living, trying, fighting, day in and day out. Without it, Nathaniel was nothing and no one._

_His mother must have seen the shards of his soul through the blankness in his eyes, because the minute Nathan turned his back Mary bundled Nathaniel up in an unfathomably sweltering black cloak, shoved a nondescript hat on his head, and bustled him out of the house to the shop of a wizened old crone. Nathaniel didn’t find out until years later that she was an outcast of the Winter Court, an elven grand-matron who had been banished to the human realm for supposedly conspiring against the crown._

_Regardless, she agreed to enchant Nathaniel’s flute so that anything he played on it would be exquisite, and those who heard it would be captivated by its artistry. Nathaniel never asked what Mary paid for her services. In the end it never mattered to Nathaniel what Mary sacrificed that night on his behalf, because the minute he brought the flute to his lips, the sound it produced was the most glorious, unimaginably beautiful, incogitable melody he had ever heard._

_Of course Mary couldn’t hide their secret excursion from Nathan forever. Nathaniel expected his father’s anger, expected the days and nights spent in endless solitary captivity, expected his flute to be taken and destroyed._

_What actually happened was somehow worse: Nathan sold his son and his enchanted flute off to the Winter Court where Nathaniel’s music - the one thing that kept him sane - was corrupted into a machination of death and sadness._

* * *

As Neil plays for Andrew that first evening he assumes Andrew will be drawn to him, or to the music, as everyone else always has been, but Andrew remains carefully separated from Neil. His hazel eyes burn like liquid pools of amber light, and Neil feels like he could drown in them. His inner conscience tells him he could utilize this moment to coerce Andrew into freeing him, but Neil’s music has always been used against him and all he really wants is to revel in its innocent beauty. 

So Neil floats away on his own music, switching seamlessly from one song to the next, allowing his mind to drift off with the melodies; he only stops when even the music fails to distract him from his own exhaustion and the blisters forming on his fingers. To Neil’s immense surprise, Andrew escorts him personally back to his rooms, thanks him for spending the evening with him, and invites Neil to join him again the following day. 

The first night becomes a comfortable pattern, and Neil spends countless evenings in that manner: dining with Andrew on exquisite meals, relaxing afterwards with a glass of fae wine, talking and playing his flute. He notices as Andrew’s demeanor slowly relaxes from the courtly decorum he possessed the first couple nights. Andrew’s warm hand occasionally lingers at Neil’s elbow as he guides him down the halls after dinner; sometimes it strays protectively to the small of Neil’s back as he ushers Neil through a crowded doorway. Andrew even picks up on Neil’s dislike for sweet desserts, yet he doesn’t hesitate to share bites of fruit or flakey pie crusts with Neil from his own plate. The evenings they don’t watch other performances, they spend relaxing on the cushions: the time dominated by easy conversation, the space between them growing smaller and smaller as the nights pass. And every evening Andrew walks Neil back to his rooms, lingering in the doorway as he wishes Neil a good night’s rest - as if he is unwilling, or unable, to pull himself away. 

As the days progress, Neil realizes that despite the illusion of happiness and safety, he cannot stay in this court without putting everyone, especially Andrew, at risk. Neil has never seen the flute’s magic work in this manner; has never seen its effects extend past the few brief measures of silence that follow the ending of a piece. But as the days pass and Andrew continues to spend the evenings in Neil’s company - their camaraderie growing quickly into friendship - Neil begins to worry about the ramifications of prolonged exposure to his music. Neil notices the changes the enchantment have wrought on Andrew; unintentionally drawing the man closer and closer to Neil despite his intentions. 

Eventually the rulers of the Autumn Court will have to make a decision about Neil’s future. At worst they ransom him back to the Winter Court, or sell him off to one of the other courts as his father had done so many years before. At best they may offer Neil a place in their court, but that would come at a price and Neil’s only worth is his music. It is only a matter of time until they discover the magic behind his flute and force it to their will - or destroy it for the danger it presents them. 

Neil’s unsure what frightens him more: losing his music, or telling Andrew the truth behind his enchanted flute and surely losing the only genuine companionship Neil’s ever known. 

After a month has come and gone in the Autumn Court and Neil has still not received any information regarding decisions on his future, he decides to take matters into his own hands. That evening at dinner Neil attempts to withdraw himself from Andrew, resigning himself to the idea that closing himself off from the man’s kindness and friendship will hopefully protect him from the flute’s enchantments. They have barely finished the evening’s meal, Neil opening his mouth to make excuses for retiring for the evening, when Andrew interrupts him with a question. “So, tell me Neil, why is it that we snatch you right out of the middle of Winter Court territory, hold you hostage for a month, and not once have you requested your own release?”

“I didn’t particularly believe I was in a position to negotiate,” Neil evades, wondering if maybe a decision finally has been made on his behalf.

“Okay, then why is it the Winter Court has only sent assassins after you instead of reward offers?”

“They believe I’m expendable.” Neil shrugs, slightly intrigued by the idea of which assassins had already failed at disposing of him, and concerned that the Winter Court rulers deemed it necessary to even try.

“Clearly,” Andrew agrees amiably. “But, why? You were obviously working with them when you ambushed us.”

“Technically, working _for_ them,” Neil corrects. Andrew and Neil haven’t spoken of that day in the woods, or the moment in the wagon on the way here. At least now Neil has an idea of how much the Autumn Court knows about him, or more accurately, how little.

Andrew accepts Neil’s admission with a slight nod and asks, “Why?”

“Long story.” Neil sighs resignedly. He didn’t particularly want to explain his entire depressing and sordid life history to Andrew, especially not when the real answer to that question was that his father had bartered him out to the Winter Court in return for immortality. An immortality that had been wasted when he murdered Neil’s mother and died from her retaliation curse. 

“Do you want to go back?” Andrew finally asks. 

“No.”

“Okay then,” Andrew says, gesturing for the servants to bring over a carafe of wine and glasses, distinctly marking the end to the conversation. “Play for me?” Andrew asks softly, just like he has every night Neil eats dinner with him. 

“Not tonight,” Neil responds, denying Andrew’s request for the first time. Andrew nods in acquiescence, a look Neil would almost call concern filling his eyes as Neil swiftly bids him goodnight. 

Neil returns to his room with a surly guard as his escort instead of Andrew that night, and as he shucks off his dinner attire and collapses onto the bed Neil’s surprised by the sharp pang of loneliness. He falls into a restless sleep wishing he could keep Andrew’s friendship without sacrificing the music that keeps him alive, wishing he wasn’t completely alone in a world set on destroying anything and everything he cares for.

* * *

_Nathaniel went by Neil now, at least in his own head. He had thought nothing could be worse than his father’s house. He’d been wrong. He thought changing names may help him outgrow the fear and loneliness of his past, but whatever name he went by it didn’t stop the faces of his victims from plaguing his mind while awake or asleep: the looks of enchanted enthrallment stuck on their faces even after death._

_The night Mary bartered for the enchanted flute she thought she was giving her son a chance at survival; she’d only succeeded in giving his father something new to use against him. Nathan had turned Nathaniel’s flute and his music - the only thing in the world that had kept him alive - into a weapon that tore his soul apart day after day. Neil wasn’t the one who drew the blades that ended the victims’ lives, but his flute enchanted them, distracted them, and eventually led them to their deaths at the Winter Court’s direction - like lambs to slaughter._

* * *

The day after their conversation regarding Neil’s involvement with the Winter Court, Andrew invites Neil out on a ride with him and Neil declines. In fact, he denies all of Andrew’s invitations to outings or dinners for the next three days - hoping that if he avoids Andrew long enough the Autumn Court will make a decision about his future and he won’t have to admit to Andrew the truth behind his flute. 

His plan backfires when Andrew shows up in person at Neil’s door, knocking but not bothering to wait for an answer before he opens the door and enters.

“Want to tell me why you’re avoiding me?” Andrew asks bluntly, closing the door and leaning against it - his arms crossed in a posture of feigned indifference. 

“I’m not.” 

Andrew stares at Neil, not bothering to warrant Neil’s obfuscation with a response. 

“I’m your hostage, and I basically gave you everything the Autumn Court would need to use me to their own advantage. I know how this plays out and it isn’t good for me either way.”

“I thought you understood me better than that after spending so much time together the last month,” Andrew says softly, the gentleness in his voice contrary to his commanding presence.

“Just because you wouldn’t use me doesn’t mean your court wouldn’t,” Neil argues.

“On the contrary, Neil, you are free to do as you wish,” Andrew responds slowly, looking away from Neil and out the big bay windows. “The Autumn Court will not force you to stay here.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Neil asks cautiously, waiting for Andrew’s amber eyes to return his gaze.

“I’d like you to stay,” Andrew says, still refusing to look at Neil. 

“Why?” Neil asks incredulously, and Andrew finally turns back towards him, the light in his eyes softer than Neil has ever seen. 

“The Autumn Court would be willing to protect you from any additional assassins the Winter Court may send. You can start a new life here, if you like. Plus, I have enjoyed your company, and your music,” Andrew admits quietly. 

“What does the Autumn Court want in return for my protection?” Neil asks warily, ignoring Andrew’s other sentiments.

“Only that you don’t use that flute of yours as a weapon against anyone in our Court,” Andrew replies easily. 

For a moment Neil is too shocked to respond, when he finally pulls enough air into his lungs he asks, “You know about my flute?” 

Andrew nods. 

“If you know about my flute, why did you continue to ask me to play for you all those evenings? Didn’t you realize I was putting you at risk?”

“I asked you to play because I enjoy your music. I have not heard such exquisite beauty, such unfathomable sadness, in music since I was in the mortal realm.” 

“How could you know I wouldn’t use it against you?”

“Because you can’t. I have a protection spell against enchantments or the effects of enchanted items.”

“I don’t understand,” Neil responds, exasperated and confused. “I’m tone deaf, my music without the enchantment is terrible, and the flute was - it was changing you, the flute was enchanting you, you kept spending time with me, being kind to me…”

“Neil, I spent time with you because I think you’re gorgeous, and intelligent, and intriguing, and for the record the music you create is still beautiful with or without the enchantment,” Andrew says with a huff, his eyes piercing Neil as thoroughly as his words did. “You may not have been good at playing before you enchanted your flute, I can’t explain to you how or why, but somewhere along the way that changed.”  
  
Neil starts to shake his head, he doesn’t know if he can believe Andrew’s words. He desperately wants to believe Andrew wasn’t enchanted - almost as much as he wants the ability to play his music without the risk of enchanting someone, without having to worry that it would be used against him.

Expertly reading the disbelief written in Neil’s eyes, Andrew gestures for Neil to follow him and walks out the door leading him down the hallway in a direction Neil has never been. After a couple turns they climb a flight of stairs and arrive at a set of golden, ornate double doors. Andrew pushes them open without knocking and Neil realizes as he enters that they must be Andrew’s room.

Andrew crosses to a dresser on the other side of the room, he pulls open a bottom drawer and pulls out a wooden flute, almost identical to Neil’s.

“Try it,” Andrew offers, placing the instrument in Neil’s hand. 

Neil lifts the flute to his mouth, then freezes. His subconscious filters in memories of the first time he’d played his flute as a child: the screech the poor instrument had omitted, the cringe on his mother’s face. 

Neil forces air into his lungs and dispels the haunting memories. He looks up at Andrew again, remembering the nights of kind conversation, the way Andrew had reverently asked him to play just one more song, the heat in Andrew’s eyes earlier when he’d said, _I think you’re gorgeous, and intelligent, and intriguing._

Taking a deep breath Neil starts to play, and the melody that floats around him is a softer, slightly slower version of that very first song - the song from that day so many years ago when Nathaniel had learned the music that had filled his darkest moments was real; when music had first started saving him. 

As the melody progresses, the notes begin climbing higher, and faster, and brighter in the autumn morning light. Neil feels his broken and battered soul start to slowly knit back together. Andrew’s hazel eyes are filled with understanding, and they both ignore the tears Neil feels slipping down his cheeks. 

The sound is the most wondrous thing Neil has ever heard, the notes are pristine, flawless, and filled with the sort of enchantment that only came from pouring your very self into your music - something magic could never replicate. Neil finally has everything he ever dreamed of, and as he concludes the piece - the final notes hanging in the air around them - Neil steps closer to Andrew, the flute falling unconsciously from his fingers to the rug below. 

“Can I kiss you?” Neil whispers.

“Yes,” Andrew responds, closing the gap between them instantly.

The kiss is better than Neil could have ever imagined; a perfect harmony to the melody of his soul, and Neil thinks he may die of happiness. He can barely wrap his mind around the fact that he’s just been offered everything he has ever wanted. 

Andrew starts to pull away, but Neil leans forward capturing his lips in another kiss.

This kiss means _thank you_. 

It means _you saved me_. 

It means _I’ll stay_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoy my writing please comment, or message me on tumblr at [makebelieveanything](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/makebelieveanything).


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